


This is quite pleasant

by sootonthecarpet



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Hopkins totally has a mancrush on Holmes by the way, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Slash, necking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-23
Updated: 2012-07-30
Packaged: 2017-11-10 14:04:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/467126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sootonthecarpet/pseuds/sootonthecarpet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>WIP. Holmes decides he secretly doesn't mind being hurt if it means he gets extra cuddles and care from Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There will probably be sex later, at which point I will give it a definite rating depending on how much detail I go into.

Sometimes, Sherlock Holmes knew, the best way to get what he wanted from people was to suddenly fall and twist his ankle, or to be struck across the head. He was very good at faking injuries. Occasionally, he had to fake injuries around Watson, and the man was generally convinced. So when he actually slipped on a patch of wet grass outside a dead man’s house and did something seriously uncomfortable to the ligaments of his knee, he tried to play it off as being faked and all according to plan. However, it was very obviously hindering rather than helping, and there was no justification for it being faked. He was just glad he’d already gotten a look at the corpse, and the footprints on the carpet. Much to his consternation, he’d fallen across the footprints on the grass, smudging them beyond recognition—though to be fair, he didn’t really NEED to see them, as he’d figured everything out already. He had only to get back into the house and up the stairs so that he could make the appropriately dramatic reveal as to the solution of the case.

This proved difficult. Watson had to actively help him ascend, and he was vaguely aware of Hopkins giving him concerned looks. Holmes pulled off explaining the solution perfectly, and was pleased enough with himself that he couldn’t bear to admit to needing help again, and as such, brushed off Watson’s offer of assistance and went down the stairs unaided, despite the distracting pain and the inability to put full weight on his left leg. This went fine, but as he was exiting the house, his knee gave entirely, pitching him to the ground, knocking the wind out of him, smacking his forehead hard against the ground, and landing him in a puddle. He pushed himself up, eyes watering. Watson crouched to help him to his feet, looking both concerned and amused—damn him—while Hopkins hovered by anxiously.

“I’m fine,” Holmes assured, ignoring the dizziness and the throbbing pain in his head and knee. Watson gave Hopkins the “I’m sorry, he’s absolutely mad” expression—Holmes glared at him—and falsely assured Holmes that he believed him. “I’m not a child, Watson,” Holmes fussed as the man helped him limp to the road and insisted on hailing a cab for them. (It wasn’t even a long walk home!)

Watson set him on the sofa and began an inspection of the damage as Holmes continued to fuss. Then he wrapped Holmes’s now swelling knee up tightly and set ice on it and the contusion on his temple.

“How do you feel? Are you dizzy at all?”

“Yes,” Holmes responded, “Dizzy and a bit nauseous from hitting my head. I should be fine in a day or two."

“Alright,” Watson told him. “Stay off that leg for a while and try to rest up.” He kissed Holmes’s forehead. That was different. He wasn’t normally that affectionate outside of the bedroom unless Holmes was depressed and generally as a result unable to appreciate it. Oh, he was talking again, something about getting Holmes a drink. Then he left, returning and handing Holmes a glass. Then he nudged Holmes forward and slid in between him and the armrest, propping Holmes up against his chest.

This was definitely pleasant. Holmes settled back with a sigh, letting his eyes drift shut. He wasn’t about to fall asleep and they both knew it, but he was definitely going to relax for a while.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aforementioned sex, and later Holmes goes all wibbly over Watson being concerned for him... Also, Watson walks around naked a little and Holmes shamelessly checks him out. (I shouldn't be allowed to write summaries when I'm tired.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh... This was the Porn That Would Not Be Written, due to a combination of technological issues and me going through a particularly nasty streak of depression. So if it seems a bit half-assed... that's because it probably is. Hell, I'd go so far as to call this borderline erotica. Which is weird for me.

He didn’t move at all for some time except to drink from the glass Watson had brought him. Eventually Watson began absently stroking his arm. Holmes sighed and fit his head more comfortably between Watson’s neck and shoulder.

They did eventually have to rise, but after they had eaten dinner Holmes was resettled on the sofa. He hoped Watson would join him, but the man sat in his armchair with a novel instead. Holmes looked at him piteously. Somehow, Watson didn’t notice—too distracted by his over-romanticized tale of, er, romance. And people on ships. Dull. Holmes tried to figure out a way to get Watson back over here and holding him again, but thinking was difficult with the pain of his injuries distracting him. Maybe he could come from the “I’m in pain and I need your presence to distract me” angle? He tried letting slip an unhappy, pained noise—it was not a whimper, a non-disguised Sherlock Holmes will NEVER whimper—and was pleased to see it resulted in Watson’s almost immediate relocation to his side.

“My dear, are you all right?” he inquired gently.

Holmes leaned towards him. “Hurts,” he responded simply. Watson kissed his forehead again and, after a pause, once more positioned himself on the sofa by Holmes. Holmes sighed happily and shifted as close to him as possible, smiling as Watson wrapped an arm around his chest.

When Watson began to nod off, Holmes nudged him. Watson briefly started, then awoke. 

“Oh… I’m sorry,” he said after a moment. “Your breathing was relaxing me and it’s getting a bit late. I should go to bed.”

“You’ll have to help me get to mine first,” Holmes pointed out. “Why not stay when we get there? We can be careful, and it’ll be a good distraction from the pain…”

(Holmes was suggesting this partially out of a desire to reinforce non-sexual intimate behaviour as a good thing via a system of reward.)

Watson thought it over and nodded. They got up, and Watson assisted Holmes in the somewhat painful transition to Holmes’s bed, into which they both gratefully collapsed.

“It would be so much more convenient if our ligaments were not quite so—mfgn,” began Holmes, but Watson could tell he was about to go on a long monologue and kissed him to shut him up. Holmes was initially displeased, until he remembered that this wasn’t just a monologue-block, it was also foreplay—whereupon he set to work at removing Watson’s collar. Once he had a good amount of neck to work with, he began mouthing at it carefully, running his tongue and teeth over some areas and occasionally sucking. Watson somehow managed to get Holmes’s collar off with his teeth (which gave Holmes a moment of “I’m not sure whether to swoon over how good at this he is or be madly jealous that he’s been with other people,”) and then began ruining any chance Holmes had at forming a coherent thought by a systematic application of his mouth to Holmes's neck. As always, Holmes had forgotten his rule about not whimpering by the time Watson drew back smugly.

"One day I AM learning how to do that," Holmes muttered after he caught his breath, and nipped at Watson's earlobe.

"You're getting better and better, I'm sure you'll be as good as I am within a couple of months... if you practice every day, of course." He smirked.

"Enough chatter," Holmes cut in, working open Watson's shirt and waistcoat. Watson returned the favour as Holmes got to work on Watson's belt and the fastenings of his trousers. Watson shivered a bit as Holmes gripped him and pumped slowly, although this was partly because Holmes's hands were a bit colder than he'd expected. After a few moments, Watson pulled away and started undressing Holmes, who pouted a bit. "You never let me have the upper hand," he complained.

"Not with that knee," Watson pointed out. "You're resting, you stay right there." Holmes glared briefly, then closed his eyes with a sigh as Watson kissed down his stomach. After what seemed like an agonizing length of time, he took Holmes into his mouth, dragging him to the edge in only a few minutes, then drawing away, kissing his throat and mouth. Holmes shuddered, digging his fingertips into Watson's shoulders. After a while, Watson returned to Holmes's cock, this time stimulating Holmes until he came, back arching from the bed, one hand pressed to his mouth to muffle his groans. Holmes took a few moments to recover, then tapped on Watson's shoulder, wordlessly requesting him to return to the level of Holmes's face. When the man acquiesced, Holmes kissed Watson, then reached down to grasp his cock, working him to the best of his abilities at this awkward of an angle. These proceedings reached their obvious end, and Watson, breathlessly, stretched beside Holmes and drew him into his arms. Holmes closed his eyes, listening to Watson's breathing until it stretched out into the steady rhythm of sleep, joining him some time later.

Holmes woke first--as was usual--but was quite content to lie still and wait for Watson to wake, because once he did, he would probably be very quick to dress and leave the room. Eventually, Watson stirred, made a bit of a noise, and opened his eyes. Holmes smiled at him briefly. Watson lifted a hand and brushed Holmes's hair away from the contusion on his temple. "Looking a bit better," he murmured. "How do you feel?"

Holmes shrugged, still not wanting to openly, verbally admit to weakness. "I am not at my best."

Watson sat up and pushed away the blankets, then took a look at Holmes's injured knee. He frowned and sympathetically patted Holmes's hip. "I'll get you some more ice for these once you're dressed, all right?"

Holmes nodded. "Could you hand me my clothes, Watson? I'd prefer not to do any needless walking."

Watson nodded and brought them to him--Holmes was quite pleased that he neglected to put on clothing first, Watson walking about naked was always rather delightful--then sat by while Holmes dressed, which was a bit more awkward than usual and involved a lot of wincing whenever his knee was involved. Watson's expression became subtly but increasingly more tender and concerned as the process went on. Part of Holmes felt guilty and annoyed, and wanted to stay quiet, but the currently dominant half wanted to just curl up in Watson's lap and live there. He compromised by not suppressing his winces. Watson dressed as well and helped Holmes to the sitting room, then fetched ice for Holmes before he went upstairs to change. Holmes hadn't expected that... He smiled a little to himself as he waited for Watson's return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks very much to that one really awesome dude (dude is gender neutral for me) whose username I can't remember and am too focused on typing this to actually check (I do remember that it was composed of mostly if not solely 'A's, 'E's, and 'L's) for being moderately supportive and stuff. Seriously, thank you for actually liking this thing, which I am writing as basically a shameless act of self-indulgence because I need SOMETHING vaguely comforting to read.
> 
> Edit: Whoah, I thought it might have been 'aella' and I was actually right. I need to stop second-guessing myself and being an insecure perfectionist and such things.


End file.
